Cooking Blues
by BloodstainedQuill
Summary: A short one-shot about Arthur's terrible cooking, and how when bachelors live together, they have to suffer together too. Arthur now owes Alfred fifty dollars.


**Cooking Blues**

Arthur, Francis, Alfred, and Gilbert all lived together in the average bachelor pad, with Chinese takeout cartons strewn out here and there, game controllers haphazardly lain on the floor for later use, and trash items of all variety left out from the previous football game watching event at every single man's home.

Generally, these people lived in harmony, after all, one cannot live with another without being able to hold up a conversation that didn't end up in vicious yelling and the occasional insult at one's mother. But another rule of thumb when living with two or more people, specifically men, is that every person has that one thing that drives everybody else up the wall, into the ceiling, and through the roof.

Alfred, for example, was loud, and brash. He constantly roughhoused with people, not helped by Gilbert's tendency to get very rough with others as well. These two often worked together to pull pranks on their roommates, even if the response they were met with were less than satisfactory.

Francis was constantly doing inappropriate things for the situation, such as hitting on girls at their dead husband's funeral, or at church. He often stirred up trouble among the women's families as well, many times resulting in violent behavior courtesy of said women. But nevertheless, Francis never actually did figure out why these women seemed to hate his very being.

Gilbert was an uncanny level of rude and inconsiderate. Always sending people off to do things he should have taken care of ages ago, and when they got back, they would somehow miraculously always find him in the same position as he was in before, but this time, with a new bottle of beer. Several rants have been in his name, either by ranting to him directly or putting his roommates under torture with rude, degrading comments.

Now Arthur wasn't the worst by far, compared to the likes of his horrendous flat members. But he was a bit too uptight and tidy for a normal bachelor in his twenties. Usually Arthur was the brunt of the pranks his roommates conjured up, and often unleashed a wrath unlike any other, removing all forms of alcohol and technological stimulants from the apartment until his peers practically went into withdrawal.

But his biggest flaw is his tragic cooking. Arthur manages to set noodles on fire when they're still boiling in the pot. The ice always spills out of the tray, and none of his family or friends would _dare_ let him touch any meat that wasn't already served on the dinner table.

Since members of the same household generally should get along, there have to be at least a couple simple rules that keep current peace amongst the four friends. Anything that involves a girl shall be kept private and all others will leave the house unless permitted by somebody to stay. Possessions are shared unless specified otherwise. And if one fails, we all share their failure equally.

This last rule is a mutually agreed one that nobody wants to do, but for sake of self-esteem purposes, is also unanimously supported.

One day, Arthur woke up with a determined attitude. No matter what anybody else says, no matter what the outcome was, he was going to try and cook for real. He was going to do the best he can to make a meal that was edible for a human.

Although he _was_ determined to succeed, that didn't in any way take away his sense of reality. Arthur knew that if he did manage to make something without burning down the kitchen, there was minimal chance that it would taste good. It would probably taste very unpleasant to the average human being, in fact. But he had to start somewhere.

Breakfast was cooked by Francis, because nobody likes to start the day with a crummy breakfast. And usually French food was quite wonderful to the taste buds, if I do say so myself. But while Francis would be reading, and Alfred and Gilbert would play video games, Arthur was going to try and cook.

Noon struck, and by this time, all the men were deep in their own activities, except Arthur. He was preparing to make a simple dish, nothing special, just a cake. The mix was already prepared, he just needed to add eggs and water, and put it in the oven.

As any new cook experiences, the eggshells were dropped in the bowl, there was too much water, and the mixing was done poorly without the help of a mixing machine that would create too much noise. There were small clumps of powder everywhere, scattered around the batter mocking Arthur.

"You think you can ruin my cake? Ha! I'll show you!" In revenge, Arthur smashed into the cake batter with his whisk.

When he finally poured the batter into the pan, it was no better than it was before, but Arthur forgave it, telling himself it was not the batter's fault. Opening the door to the oven, he hesitantly slid the round metal into the shelf, and closed it with an internal finale.

Waiting, and waiting, and waiting. Arthur glanced over to Francis and he was still reading his Shakespeare. Even though he swore he'd never read Arthur's English trash, he found himself attached to the romantic aspects of his tragic stories. Alfred had abandoned the videogames to play with his army men and legoes, seeming more like an eight year old than ever.

When the bell finally dinged, he jumped. Opening the oven with eagerness, he stared down his prize to be met with disappointment.

What should have been a golden yellow vanilla cake came out as a medium brown, with air bubbles at the top. The inside caved in a little bit like a deflated balloon.

But Arthur wasn't too upset. He knew his first time cooking wouldn't result in a bakery cake, and this time, he didn't set the kitchen on fire which was somewhat of a start. He gingerly pulled the hot pan out with a mitten, and set it on the table to cool.

Francis strolled into the kitchen. "What is that God awful smell? Oh Arthur, you were cooking?!" He shrieked. "Alfred, Gilbert, get in here!"

The two men raced into the kitchen and covered their noses with their sleeves. Gilbert started the criticism. "Arthur, you are a terrible cook and you know it. What made you put all of us through such torture! Now I'm jealous of my bruder who gets to live with Feliciano!"

"Look, I tried my best, and according to our rules, you all support me and try this cake!" He slammed his fist down.

Alfred laughed. "Dude, no way! We're not getting food poisoning!" He slapped Arthur's back. "It's okay man, we can't all be great at everything. C'mon Gilbert, I still haven't beaten the boss yet!"

"Yea, cause you suck!" cackled Gilbert.

Francis gave Arthur a pitying look. "Look, my friend, I really wish I could be strong enough to support you, but I will not eat this terrible cake." He shuffled out of the kitchen with the book he was reading in his face to avoid looking at Arthur.

Arthur wilted. _I thought they were supposed to support me. No matter. I'll eat this cake myself,_ he decided, determined.

He took a fork, and stabbed through the cake. The fork pierced the brown layer and squished in batter not yet turned into cake. This just made him even more crestfallen. Taking the fork out and licking it, he grimaced. _I guess I really ought not to try so hard next time._

For what seemed like hours he just sat there alone with the failed cake, brooding. Then footsteps echoed next to him. Francis, with a weak smile, took the fork and without hesitation filled his mouth with Arthur's cake.

He made a face as he ate it, and instantly went to go get water, but sat down again to eat some more. It was slowly eaten, and Francis could never say he didn't regret it, but it was worth seeing the appreciative look on Arthur's face, at least at the time.

Alfred and Gilbert trudged into the kitchen, faces grim. They too grabbed a large fork and dug in, not saying a word. After thirty minutes, the cake was gone, and three of the four men had upset stomachs.

"Dude, you owe me," Alfred groaned as he sipped weakly at a jug of water.

They all filed out of the kitchen wordlessly, no more congratulations or criticism. With a smile, Arthur went to clean the dishes with a lighter heart.

But there was no way he was ever cooking again.


End file.
